


Another Shot of Emetrol

by emetsketeers



Series: puke with a side of H/C [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emetophilia, Gen, h/c, puke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emetsketeers/pseuds/emetsketeers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos doesn't want to throw up. The problem is that Athos really, really needs to throw up. Aramis keeps him company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Shot of Emetrol

The tile floor is cold through the fabric of his sweatpants. He’s shivering. He’s also hot as hell, in that dizzying, reality-warping way, and there’s sweat soaking into his t-shirt at the collar and back and armpits.

Athos feels horrible. Shaky and feverish and _fucking_ nauseous.

He’s not exactly a stranger to this feeling; an alcohol tolerance as high as his is not attained without an awful lot of messy trial and error. But he hasn’t been drinking. He’s done absolutely nothing productive to get to this point. Must be a stomach virus, or something funny he ate, and for some reason that makes it twenty times worse.

He hates being sick. Hates it, hates it, hates it. Really wants to just get to his feet and leave, go back to his bedroom and sleep this off, but the logical part of his mind understands that he _is_ going to throw up, sooner rather than later, and therefore here, kneeling in front of the toilet, is the place to be.

His stomach feels beyond disgusting. He can taste vomit at the back of his throat; his mouth is watering, and his hands are shaking.

And that’s when the door opens.

“Oh,” Aramis says, reflexively; then, taking account of the situation, “ _oh_. Oh, Athos. Are you sick?”

Athos only glares at him.

“How long have you been feeling sick? Did you come home early from work?”

Athos stops even bothering to glare, and looks back to the toilet.

Aramis snorts gently. “Is this go-away-Aramis silence, or is it I’ll-be-sick-if-I-open-my-mouth silence?”

_Both_ , Athos thinks miserably, but Aramis must take it to be only the latter, or must not care, because he steps over Athos’ legs, perches at the edge of the bathtub, and runs a hand through Athos’ hair.

“Have you been sick yet?” Silence. “Right, questions. It doesn’t seem like you’ve been sick yet. Waiting’s the worst, isn’t it? I mean, that’s what I hear. I’d be wanking away right now.”

Athos puts his head down on the toilet rim.

“Sorry. Just conversation. I’m not turned on, I swear,” Aramis notes. “I’m a demi-emetophile. Only Porthos’ puke gets me going. And, y’know, my own.”

If the goal was to lighten Athos’ mood, it works maybe just a little bit, but if the goal was to prompt some snarky comment, it doesn’t. He just isn’t up to it. He really, really, _really_ needs to throw up… and he really, really, _really_ doesn’t want to.

Aramis can see this. “Your body wants it out for a reason,” Aramis soothes. “Best to listen. Once you’re done I’ll get you some Emetrol and you can take a nap.”

Christ, is Aramis planning on staying? That’s… absurd. That’s beyond indignity.

Oh God, Athos wants him to stay. Wants him to stay even more than he wants him to leave.

He’s really feeling sick now. The stormy sea of his stomach is tossing almost violently, and his whole lower half is beginning to clench up; shivers like lighting bolts are running through his body, and Aramis’ hand on his back feels like a life vest as he rears up over the toilet… his stomach is heaving now, the taste of vomit sharp on his tongue, and he’s well beyond the point of no return, is going to be sick now, any fucking second…

Athos jerks forward, leans back. Jerks forward, leans back. Jerks forward, gags, gags again, and then with a contraction of his stomach so fierce he physically shudders, he expels a massive gush of vomit into the toilet bowl.

The assault leaves him breathless. He stares down at his own refuse, too sick for morbid fascination but still unable to look away. It’s not the yellow liquid of a night of drinking, or the frothy bile of the morning after; it’s a thick brown stew of coffee and ham sandwich that was happily on its way through the digestive tract when it was interrupted by a case of reverse peristalsis. It’s sick person puke. Suddenly seeing it makes the whole thing real, which just makes him feel sicker, and he closes his eyes and brings up a second wave of vomit, which gushes through his mouth like he’s nothing more than a human escape valve. When he opens his eyes the entire bowl is coated in brown, and he’s gotten some over the edges as well. Thank god he put the seat up, at least.

He sinks back, not feeling much better but at least not feeling another surge coming right this second. Aramis (whom he’d forgotten, just for that one second, and whose presence he is once again so fucking grateful for) passes him some toilet paper, which he wipes his mouth on and tosses into the toilet. Aramis passes him more, and he blows his nose, feeling his stomach turn again as vomit comes out of his nostrils along with the snot. He throws that in the toilet as well, but can’t muster the effort to reach out for the flusher.

Aramis does it for him, and the stinking mess disappears. He’s shaking all over now, but he’s so damn _hot_ he could cry. He doesn’t even want to know how red his face is now.

That’s when Aramis (oh, Aramis… Athos could kiss him, knows he might even be a little into that right now) lays a cool, damp washcloth at the back of his neck. “It’s okay,” Aramis soothes. “I know you’re feeling really lousy right now, but you’ll feel better soon. Jeez, you’re flushed.” And then there’s a hand brushing over Athos’ forehead. “Yup, that’s a fever,” Aramis murmurs. Athos closes his eyes, and Aramis peels the cloth from the back of his neck, uses it to blot the sweat from his forehead.

“I know you don’t like throwing up, but it’s better to get it out of you, you know. Do you still feel sick?”

Athos nods.

“Just as much?”

After a long moment he shakes his head.

“Okay. Emetrol?”

Athos nods. He closes his eyes while the medicine cabinet opens and shuts, and a moment later Aramis is crouching down at his side again, holding out a little medicine cup full of bright red syrup. He reaches out for it, but his hand is shaking so bad that Aramis does not give it to him, holds it to his lips instead.

“Just like a shot,” he teases, and Athos swallows it back obediently. Aramis sits down before him, fitting into the narrow space between the toilet and the tub, and glances at his watch. “Fifteen minutes between doses,” he notes. “Do you want to try to close your eyes and rest?”

The cramp in his stomach is sharp and sudden, and before he has time to move he’s puked up the bright red cherry syrup, the very stuff that was supposed to make him _not_ puke, in one straight-line spurt that starts on his own knee and ends on Aramis’. Mortified, Athos claps a hand to his mouth, five seconds too late.

But Aramis is Aramis, and he shrugs and stands and shimmies out of his jeans.

“It’s okay, love,” he soothes. “Guess you’ve got some more in there, huh?”

Athos’ mouth tastes like vomit and Emetrol, and instead of answering he hangs his head and lets himself retch miserably against the horrid taste, until it becomes clear that these are not just dry heaves, that there’s another flood approaching…

Rather than go to the toilet, for some reason, he hauls himself up over the edge of the bathtub, aligning his stomach with the edge of the porcelain and letting the sharp pressure work with the already-surging contractions in his body until he retches up a colossal, finally-satisfying wave of thick brown liquid, all over the bone dry floor of the bathtub.

Finally, finally, _finally_ he feels a little better, and burps a few times before sinking back to the ground. Beyond exhausted, he leans his forehead against the tub and closes his eyes.

Time passes. A damp cloth wipes his mouth.

More time passes. Another shot of Emetrol is held to his lips, and he swallows it back dutifully.

More time passes. Another shot of Emetrol, and if Aramis is timing this correctly it means he hasn’t gotten sick for at least a full quarter-hour.

He loses some time, realizes he’s fallen asleep. The toilet and the tub are spotless, and his arm is numb where it’s caught beneath his weight, against the side of the tub. His stomach hurts, feels at once gassy and sharply empty, but he doesn’t exactly feel nauseous anymore.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Aramis teases, and kneels down beside him with yet another shot of Emetrol. “Drink,” he commands, and Athos does, closing his eyes briefly when Aramis uses the back of his own hand to wipe a dribble of syrup from Athos’ lips. “You wanna try to get to bed?”

He doesn’t, really. His legs are shaking even with no weight on them, and though his stomach is better, the thought of leaving the bathroom worries him a great deal.

“Okay,” Aramis soothes. He leaves and returns a minute later with a pillow and an old blanket. “We need to get your bottoms off, love. They’re soaking.”

Athos blinks down dumbly at his sweatpants; he has no memory of throwing up anywhere but the toilet and the tub, but at some point he’d apparently thrown up on himself as well, much more than just that little spurt of Emetrol; his lap is coated with horrible brown vomit. Aramis leans down over him, grips the elastic of his waistband and wriggles it down over his legs. He’s not very helpful, only straightening his legs the slightest bit, too busy feeling so shitty and so embarrassed that, as though it would fucking help anything, he begins to cry.

There’s a splat of puke-saturated sweatpants hitting a bathtub floor, then Aramis fits behind down beside Athos. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick again?” he intones, gently. Athos shakes his head. “Okay. Just having a rough day, huh?”

A little sob slips out, and Athos nods, because yes, he is; he hates being sick and in the past hour he’s thrown up all over the bathroom, and himself, and can’t forget that one time he actually threw up on Aramis too and now he’s curled up against the bathtub in only a sweaty t-shirt and boxers and…

“If this,” Aramis says firmly, “has anything to do with embarrassment, then you need to stop crying right effing now.”

Athos puts his head back against the tub and cries harder.

“I mean it.” The hand that brushes against his brow is so, so gentle. “Stop crying, love, you’re only going to upset your belly again, and you’re dehydrated as it is. Stop crying, sweetheart. I know you might hate me to see you this way but I promise, promise, _promise_ it’s no big deal.”

_It’s a very fucking big deal_ , Athos thinks, even if it’s not the end of the world it’s still an enormous thing for him to be taken care of. He doesn’t _like_ to be taken care of.

(He fucking _loves_ it, actually. And nobody ever does it, at least not when he’s sober enough to remember afterwards. He supposes Aramis has probably cleaned up his puke before, his drunk puke, but he’d never really thought too much about it, and thinking about it now makes him sob again.)

Aramis puts a hand to the side of his head, lifts it up from the tub, and slips a pillow underneath it. Then he wets a washcloth, wipes it over the stickiness on Athos’ thighs. When that’s finished he drapes the blanket around Athos’ body, tucking in the edges, and puts the wastebasket next to him, as close as it can be without being in his lap.

“Okay, okay, love,” Aramis soothes. “I guess maybe you shouldn’t hold in the tears any more than you should hold in the puke, huh? Your nose is running, though.”

A moment later there’s a wad of toilet paper wiping down his upper lip, and then Aramis’ fingers are brushing away the tears.

“I’ll let you sleep. You need the rest, my friend.”

Athos nods, tears finally petering out.

“As soon as you think you can hold it down we ought to get some fluids in you. No good dehydrating with a fever.”

Athos nods again, would consent to just about anything Aramis says now, and tugs the blanket a little tighter around himself.

“Sleep, love,” Aramis soothes. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Shout it you need me. Well, you won’t shout. I’ll come by and check, okay?” Aramis’ fingers brush over his skin once again, and Athos closes his eyes. “I’ll come by and check.”

**Author's Note:**

> I swear to god I'm posting some actual puke porn next. Not that I don't love this stuff too...


End file.
